


With Parted Eye

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Nothing in the World [7]
Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Banter, Blood, Established Relationship, Flirting, Hospitalization, Hospitals, Living Together, M/M, Revenge, Stabbing, Stitches, Worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-11-19 10:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'Having someone to look after you all the time makes you complacent.'" Izaya makes a late-night run to the convenience store and Shizuo has to make up for it after the fact.





	With Parted Eye

“It’s the middle of the night,” Shizuo complains from his space-filling sprawl on the couch, with his feet kicked up on one end and his head angling over the other so he can watch Izaya stepping into his shoes by the front door. “I’ll go with you to pick up a copy in the morning if you wait.”

“News waits for no one,” Izaya informs Shizuo, knotting the laces of his shoe tight before he looks up to smile through the weight of his hair at the other. “I’m going to need _something_ to amuse me after you pass out tonight.”

“You could always come to bed at a reasonable hour,” Shizuo suggests. “I could give you a massage, if you wanted.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow as he straightens to stand in the entryway. “Sorry, is that supposed to be an argument in _favor_ of going to bed on time?” He reaches for his coat and shrugs it on without looking away from Shizuo watching him. “I thought you would know by now how you get when you get your hands on me, we wouldn’t be asleep until past midnight.”

“It’d be worth it,” Shizuo drawls without so much as batting an eye at the suggestion on Izaya’s voice. “You’d still be in bed by two, and you always sleep better after sex.”

“Only because I can’t escape from your clutches and have no choice but to resign myself to my fate,” Izaya says. The sharp edge of his tone is rather undermined by the smile he can feel tugging at the corner of his mouth, but then Shizuo is starting to grin too, and Izaya isn’t particularly concerned about giving away his true feelings on this count. “I’d never get any work done if I let you lure me into bed whenever you wanted.”

“No?” Shizuo turns over on the couch, rolling over so he can better smile at Izaya in the doorway. “Sorry, have you been _resisting_ me? I hadn’t even noticed, you’ll have to tell me when you’re being cold next time.”

“I’ll send you a memo,” Izaya says with the haughtiest tone he can manage; but he’s biting his lip to fight back his smile, and he thinks even then it’s a largely failed attempt. “Notice how I’m in fact leaving you right this moment.”

“For a whole five minutes,” Shizuo says from the couch, not making any attempt at all to hold back his own smile.

“That’s right,” Izaya says, turning with a flourish as he reaches to pull the door open. “I’m abandoning you to your own devices, whatever will you do without me?”

“Pine endlessly,” Shizuo says without moving to get up from the couch. “Maybe I’ll take up poetry to fill the time.”

“Good,” Izaya says. “I expect at least three sonnets by the time I get back.”

Shizuo’s laugh is loud enough to fill the whole of the overlarge living room; when Izaya looks back Shizuo is still watching him, smiling over the whole of his face and with unmistakable tenderness behind his eyes. “I’ll do what I can.”

“You had better,” Izaya says, and steps out into the hallway, only lifting his other hand to flutter his fingers into a wave as he leaves the apartment. “Don’t bother waiting up, senpai.”

“Bye,” Shizuo calls, amusement audible on his voice; and then the door swings shut behind Izaya, and he’s turning to continue down the hallway with an easy, careless stride. He takes the stairs instead of the elevator, skipping down them with a reckless haste to match the warmth of affection glowing so warm in his veins, and he’s still smiling as he comes out the front door of the complex, his steps so light he feels a little like he could float right off the ground if he moved quickly enough. It’s warm outside, even with the glow of sunset fading to the darker blue of falling night; Izaya thinks he almost doesn’t need his coat at all, from a temperature perspective. But he’s not uncomfortable with it on, and he’s only going around the corner anyway, so he continues on without hesitating, falling into the flow of pedestrians along the sidewalk and maneuvering between them as he makes his way towards the convenience store with the latest edition of the magazine he’s interested in reading.

It really could wait until the morning, he reflects as he rounds the end of the block and falls into a comfortable stride to carry him the rest of the distance without any need for real thought on his part. The magazine hardly ever sells out overnight, in any case, and even if he missed out on the main release he has more than sufficient sources to procure a copy for himself within the day. But it’s a nice night, and he doesn’t mind the walk; and there’s something pleasant about going out for a quick errand knowing that Shizuo is waiting for him back in the glow of their apartment, lying across the span of the couch as much his as Izaya’s and probably losing himself in the mundanity of some movie. Izaya thinks it might be worth leaving just for the pleasure of coming back, of climbing in over the back of the couch and demanding the welcome home that he’s sure he can turn into something more than a simple kiss and greeting with very little effort at all; he’s smiling over the thought of it as he steps out to cross the street with the flow of the rest of traffic, as he falls into pace with the crowd around him and lets them carry him to the far sidewalk.

His phone rings just as he steps onto the curb. It’s loud enough that the ringtone is all but lost to the white noise around him, but Izaya can feel the vibration of the incoming call humming in the pocket of his coat, and he’s drawing it free before it’s finished out its second ring. The number of the incoming call is blocked, but that’s hardly a surprise; Izaya has plenty of customers who wish to maintain the illusion of anonymity, particularly during those casual chats he’ll have with people who are only interested in a single piece of information, or at least who tell themselves so. Those are often repeat customers, given a few months to think over how useful he was previously; he expects this to be one of those, is already smiling to himself as he answers the call and brings the phone to his ear. “Good evening, how can I help you?”

There’s no hesitation at all in the reply, not so much as a breath of a pause before the voice on the other end responds to Izaya’s question. “ _This is Orihara Izaya, isn’t it?_ ”

“Yes,” Izaya says. He doesn’t recognize the voice on the other end of the line; this isn’t hugely remarkable in itself, but it’s odd to not have even a vague sense of familiarity for the memorably lilting masculine tone at his ear. He can feel his mouth pulling down onto a frown of concentration as he tries to place the speaker, but nothing he can think of is providing any kind of traction.

“ _Ah, that’s good, that’s good!_ ” the speaker continues. He sounds almost sincere in the cheer of his tone; Izaya can’t say why the words ring slightly hollow, why the relief on the other’s voice seems so entirely a show to his ear. “ _I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for some time. You’ve been causing me a bit of trouble recently, you know?_ ” Izaya’s frown deepens, he can feel it tightening at his forehead and drawing hard at his mouth, but his mystery caller is still speaking without waiting for any kind of a response. “ _Well, not you, exactly. It’s that bodyguard you’ve got, Heiwajima Shizuo, wasn’t it? Gossip says you two have been inseparable since middle school. Everyone in the city knows who you are._ ”

“I’m sorry,” Izaya says without making any attempt to smooth his voice out of the chill of insincerity. “Do I know you?”

“ _It’s not a bad idea, having a bodyguard with you_ ,” the speaker continues without pausing. “ _Good way to keep yourself safe by just having him there, you almost don’t need to get into fights at all. I’ve got a piece of advice for you, though; or maybe it’s more of a warning, really. Having someone to look after you all the time makes you complacent_.” There’s the sound of footsteps behind Izaya, the shift of the crowd moving around him where he’s trailed to a stop on the sidewalk.

“ _And do you know the problem with complacency?_ ” the voice asks. “You forget to keep an eye on your back when you’re all alone.” The voice is strange, Izaya thinks, there’s an odd echo over the phone line; and then he realizes what he’s hearing, and he hisses an inhale of sudden panic at precisely the same moment a shoulder slams roughly against his own to knock him off-balance. There’s an impact at his side, a feeling like a fist crushing against his lowest ribs to knock the breath from his lungs; and then a blossoming of pain, heat unfolding into agony that surges out from the center point of Izaya’s side, where a knife has just sunk inches into his skin.

His attacker keeps moving, sliding the knife free and stepping forward and away to be lost in the rest of the crowd while Izaya is still standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, his expression wiped as blank as his thoughts by the unexpected attack. His heart is pounding with adrenaline, his breathing is rushing loud in his ears; at his side there’s a spill of heat as blood spills from the wound to soak through his coat and shirt. Izaya lifts his hand across to press his fingers to the injury, to weight his touch against the rush of blood as if the force of his touch will be enough to stem the flow; and it’s then that his vision hazes, and his knees give way as the dizzy effect of shock rushes over him to knock the world away from under his feet. Izaya collapses to the sidewalk, landing hard at his knees for a moment before his balance tips him forward to fall face-first against the pavement; his phone drops from his strengthless fingers to land hard against the sidewalk and skid away and out of his reach. There’s the sound of gasps, the beginnings of shocked exclamations as pedestrians around Izaya jump backwards in the first surprise at his collapse; but Izaya doesn’t try to lift his head to look up at them, doesn’t try to raise his gaze from the dark weight of his phone some feet away from the reach of his fingertips. He blinks once, feeling his thoughts clear and coalesce for a moment of clarity; and then he shuts his eyes, and huffs a laugh that hurts as much in the pressure in his chest as his fingers sting against the wound in his side.

“Fuck,” Izaya murmurs, quietly enough that no one other than him will be able to hear the sound of his voice. “Shizuo is going to be _pissed_.” And then he gasps an inhale, and feels the pain at his side spike to blinding heights, and shock takes over to pull him down into blissful unconsciousness.

 

Shizuo is _furious_.

“ _You’re not listening_ ,” he growls to the woman sitting behind the smooth white desk at the hospital. “Just tell me where he is and I’ll _go_.”

“I can’t do that,” she says with a calm that would be more impressive to Shizuo if she weren’t depriving him of vital information. “He’s not awake yet, visitors aren’t allowed unless the patient is--”

“He’ll want to see me,” Shizuo insists. “He’d want me to be there with him. I _should_ have been there with him, just _tell_ me--”

“I can’t do that, sir,” the woman says, with her voice taking on the strained edge of forced politeness that is clearly visible in the tight-lipped smile she gives Shizuo as he leans in over the desk. “I understand you’re concerned, but I assure you your friend will be just fine and you’ll be able to see him shortly.”

“He got _stabbed on the street_ ,” Shizuo bites off. “He’s not _just fine_.” His voice is dropping down almost an octave of depth with the rising frustration of the moment: at not knowing where Izaya is, at being referred to by the completely true and completely insufficient word _friend_ , at the pressure of guilt bearing down on him that is chanting _this is your fault, this is your fault, you should have been there_ like a chorus of pressure at the back of his thoughts. If Shizuo were more prone to inactivity he thinks he would still be on the sidewalk where he found the dark-stained cement and the fractured stories of a few bystanders enough to tell the tale even with Izaya carried away sometime in the few minutes it took Shizuo to worry, and to call, and to follow Izaya’s path outside when he received no answer. The guilt had hit him then, in perfect sync with the horror of this happening _again_ , of reliving the moment he had sworn he would never let himself suffer through ever again; but Shizuo’s never been one for inactivity, and his feet were moving even before he finished the cell-phone search for the nearest hospital so he could cut the straightest path through the city to get there. He didn’t even notice how breathless he was when he showed up, didn’t think about how disheveled he looked when he came up to the front desk to demand the whereabouts of Orihara Izaya; and that’s where he’s been ever since, with his breathing easing from the pant of physical exertion but his chest tightening on the pressure of frustration and the wall of unhelpfulness provided by the receptionist in front of him.

“I can see that you’re upset,” the woman says again, fixing Shizuo with that bland smile that feels like nothing so much as condescension in the moment. Shizuo can feel his shoulders strain under his vest, can feel his fingers tighten against the edge of the counter under his hand; it takes a conscious effort to draw his hold free, to press the strength of his fingers hard against his palms instead of cracking the smooth laminate in front of him. “If you’ll take a seat I’m sure we’ll be able to--” The phone on her desk rings, the electronic chime cuts her off mid-sentence. She looks down to consider the caller ID displayed and holds up a hand without even looking at Shizuo. “One moment please.”

Shizuo shuts his eyes and takes a deep, long breath. It’s hard to force his lungs to ease enough to allow for the inhale and harder still to let it go; it requires a level of calm he doesn’t have and can’t find for himself, even knowing what’s at stake in the moment. It’s only the need to convince the receptionist that he’s calm enough to be allowed to see Izaya that is keeping his usual frustration under control, and even then he’s afraid the rising pressure of unchecked worry is making him look more manic by the second. He’s no good at keeping up appearances he doesn’t feel, not alone; that’s Izaya’s job, it’s Izaya who flashes his teeth into insincere smiles and drops his voice into the liquid purr of manipulation and handles all this kind of thing while Shizuo is free to scowl intimidation in the background. They’re meant to work together, to balance each other’s weaknesses and complement the other’s strengths; but Izaya was caught alone by the edge of a knife Shizuo could have handled, and now Shizuo is left to fumble through an interaction well out of his depth just to find his way back to where he’s supposed to be. The thought makes Shizuo’s chest tighten on what he thinks might be tears, if he had the mental space to spare for expressing them; and then there’s an outside voice, “Sir,” clear and pointed enough that he opens his eyes without even thinking about the motion.

The receptionist is looking up at him from the other side of the desk. She’s not offering that polite smile anymore; her expression is relaxed instead, her motion easy as she lifts a hand to offer a slip of paper over the counter towards Shizuo.

“You’re in luck,” she tells him, as he reaches out to take the paper without understanding what it is she’s offering him. “Your friend just woke up and the doctors have determined he can receive visitors.”

Shizuo looks down at the note. There’s a number written on it, four digits to indicate the newest point for his energy to center on, the latest information to make his current location the wrong one once again.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he says, the words heavy with unfeigned sincerity, and he’s turning before he has time to see the receptionist’s eyes go wide with his honest thanks or her mouth curve up at the corner at the sudden turn in his tone. There’s only a few people in front of the elevators, a handful of patients and family members waiting for the next set of doors to open; but Shizuo can’t wait, can’t possibly hold still long enough to shuffle into the enclosed space of the elevator and wait for it to climb to the floor he needs. He makes for the stairs instead, pushing the door open with more force that the action requires, and he’s halfway up the first flight before the door has yet completed its motion to swing shut again behind him. He doesn’t pause at the turning for the second story, just swings himself around the end of the stairs by the banister and starts on the second flight; if anything he thinks he’s speeding up as he goes, drawn to greater speed by every full-chested inhale he takes. He’s warm all over by the time he makes it to the fourth floor of the hospital, his skin radiant under his shirt and his breathing filling him with adrenaline with every inhale he takes, and he emerges out into the hospital hall without slowing down at all, bursting out into the hushed quiet of the space without any self-consciousness at the racket he makes as he leaves the door to slam shut behind him.

It’s a long hallway. There’s a row of rooms, all identical but for the numbers framed in plastic alongside each handle; Shizuo barely spares them a glance, only takes the moment necessary to confirm they’re not the one he wants before he’s striding forward down the hallway in pursuit of the next. Room after room passes him by, doors open or shut, occupied and empty dismissed just the same; and then he finds a number off by two from the one he wants, and he’s looking forward to the next room as quickly as he processes what he’s seeing, his heartrate skipping the faster in his chest at the near-recognition. He runs the last steps, crossing the remaining distance with a speed that nearly carries him right past the open door of the room; but he’s reaching out to catch himself at the frame, to stall his forward movement with the flex of his fingers against the edge, and then he’s swinging himself forward and into the space without taking the time to even confirm the occupant. He doesn’t need to; he can feel it in the air, can breathe electricity into his chest, and then Izaya is turning his head against the thin hospital pillow underneath him, and blinking up at Shizuo, and for a moment all Shizuo can think to do is stare blankly at him.

Izaya looks thinner than he usually does, lying with only the thin of a hospital gown to hang too-wide over his shoulders and drape to weight against the line of his upper arms. His hands are unbandaged and slack in his lap, his face unmarred by any sign of injury; but he’s paler than usual, like every ounce of blood he spilled over the sidewalk drained color from his skin to leave him looking vaguely ill in spite of the lack of any other visible mark of hurt. His eyes are wide, his lashes are very dark; he looks like a picture of himself, as if he’s become someone different in the hour it’s been since Shizuo saw him last. And then his lashes shift on a blink, his lips tighten against the curve of a smile; and he’s himself, he’s Izaya, and Shizuo’s breath spills out of him in a rush of relief he can feel shudder through the whole of his body.

“ _Izaya_ ” he hears himself say, and he’s moving without thinking, his entire self carried forward out of the doorway and in to where Izaya is lifting a hand to reach out for him, to stretch out in a gesture that Shizuo is responding to before it’s even done. Izaya’s fingers touch Shizuo’s sleeve, his hold curls in against the other’s arm, and Shizuo is lifting his hands as quickly as Izaya touches him, reaching out to press his palms against the sides of Izaya’s face, to frame the other steady as he leans in to press his mouth against the tangle of dark hair over Izaya’s forehead. Izaya huffs a laugh, the sound soft and a little bit shaky, from what Shizuo can tell from just the noise of it, and Shizuo lingers where he is for a long moment, letting the heat of his lips soak into the warmth of Izaya’s skin while some measure of that unspecified, uncontrolled panic eases from the vice grip it had around his heart.

“You,” he finally says, letting the words tangle into Izaya’s hair because he can’t make himself pull away any more than he can ease the pressure of his fingers bracing against Izaya’s head to hold the other steady, as if he can offer retroactive protection if he only holds on well enough. “Don’t _ever_ scare me like that again.”

“Right,” Izaya says, and his tone is light but his fingers at Shizuo’s wrist are pressing so tight Shizuo can feel the texture of his shirt printing against his skin under the force. “I’ll be sure to invite you to my next planned stabbing, senpai, I know how upset you get when you’re left out of these things.”

“I _am_ upset,” Shizuo tells him, while Izaya is tipping his head up without trying to break free of the hold of the other’s heads and Shizuo is trying to simultaneously glare sincerity and drink in every detail of Izaya’s presence that he can possibly get. “I didn’t know where you had gone and you didn’t pick up your phone and then I heard someone got stabbed and I thought you--” and then Izaya’s free hand is coming up against the back of his neck and pulling him down, and Shizuo has to stop talking so he can do a proper job of kissing Izaya instead. For a minute Shizuo’s mind goes blank, his whole attention shifts gears to focus instead on the soft of Izaya’s mouth against his, and the weight of Izaya’s fingers at the back of his neck, and the low hum of appreciation in the back of Izaya’s throat; and then they pull away again, and Shizuo takes a breath and resumes his speech. “I was so _worried_ , Izaya.”

“I know,” Izaya says, sounding almost tender, almost pleased; his hand at the back of Shizuo’s neck eases to draw up, to stroke through the strands as he looks up at Shizuo, as his mouth curves onto the very start of a smile, for all the world as if Shizuo is saying he loves him instead of expressing some fraction of the panic that has so gripped him for the small infinity that has passed since they were last together. “I knew you would be.”

“You could have--” Shizuo starts, and then has to stop, because his throat is closing up on the panic of those words on his lips, there’s heat building behind his eyes as he imagines Izaya lying in the shadows of an alley instead of the well-lit space of a main street, somewhere without anyone to call an ambulance for him, somewhere no one would find him as his blood seeped into the pavement and his breathing slowed and he--

“God,” Shizuo chokes out, and he eases a hand to stroke against Izaya’s face, to slide the dark of the other’s hair back and away from the familiar beauty of his features. “I am so _glad_ you’re okay.”

“I am,” Izaya says, still smiling up at Shizuo with that odd softness in his eyes and his mouth curving in a way that makes Shizuo want to press his lips to it, that makes Shizuo’s whole body ache with affection so sharp and strong in this moment it’s closer to pain than pleasure. “I’m okay, Shizu-chan, you don’t need to worry.”

“I _am_ worried,” Shizuo says, just to underscore the point; but his breathing is coming easier in spite of himself, some of the horrified fear gripping so tight around his heart is letting go with every breath he hears Izaya take and every indication that the other is, in fact, better than Shizuo feared he would be. He slides his hand through dark hair once more, watches Izaya’s lashes flutter with simple appreciation of the action; and then Shizuo’s phone hums in his pocket, and Shizuo looks down to his slacks with vague surprise at this proof that he even has a phone at all.

“You’re getting a text,” Izaya tells him, needlessly; but he’s reaching out without waiting for Shizuo to do so, slipping his fingers into the other’s pocket to slide the device free while Shizuo is still trying to find the willpower to ease his hold on Izaya in front of him. Izaya lets his hold at Shizuo’s neck go as he slides the phone open to read the incoming message, his attention dropping to the screen instead of clinging to Shizuo’s face. “Celty wants to know if I’m dead yet.”

“She does not,” Shizuo says, and lets Izaya go so he can tug his phone free of the other’s hold. Izaya lets him, flashing the start of a grin as Shizuo reclaims his property, and Shizuo can’t help but smile back even as he looks down to read the message for himself. _We just heard_ , the text reads; _is Izaya okay?? Where are you? Are you at the hospital with him? Can we come visit?_ Another message comes through while Shizuo is reading through Celty’s: _Izaya’s on the news for getting stabbed! Did you kill whoever did it?_ with Shinra’s particular combination of curiosity and emotional distance to clarify the sender without needing the name at the top of the message. Shizuo huffs a breath of almost-a-laugh at Shinra’s comments before closing them out and tabbing back to respond to Celty’s as he shifts to sit against the edge of the hospital bed alongside Izaya’s hip.

“You know it’s bad manners to ignore the person you came to visit,” Izaya comments, sounding amused enough that Shizuo only glances at him before looking back to finish composing his message. Izaya’s fingers catch against Shizuo’s pocket, curling to tug against the fabric like he’s thinking about reaching inside to pull the other’s wallet or cigarettes free next. “If you don’t want to see me you might as well go back home after all, Shizu-chan.”

“I want to see you,” Shizuo says, and reaches to catch Izaya’s hand in his own so he can curl his fingers in around the other’s and finish typing his message one-handed instead. “I’m just telling Shinra and Celty where we are.” He tabs back up to the _to_ box to add Kadota’s name as well, for good measure, before he hits _send_ and closes his phone again. “I’m not the only one who’s worried about you.”

“It’s so exciting to be a victim,” Izaya says, smiling as he slides his hand back from Shizuo’s hold so he can interlace their fingers instead. “Maybe I should try it more often.”

“You should not,” Shizuo says, not even able to muster any real heat with Izaya looking at him the way he is; he tightens his hold on the other’s hand as emphasis instead, since he can’t find anything but aching affection for his tone. “I’ll have to start following you everywhere you go if something like this happens again.”

“Yes, because that’s _so_ different than usual,” Izaya drawls, but he sounds a little bit hazy, like he’s struggling to find the words for his lips. His attention is sliding from Shizuo’s face to their clasped hands; he slides his thumb against Shizuo’s skin, slow, like he’s feeling against the flex of the other’s muscle under his touch. “You’re already my permanent shadow.”

“I don’t mind,” Shizuo says, but he’s distracted by Izaya’s distraction, he can feel his forehead creasing on concern as he watches the other’s usual razor-sharp attention flicker and wander. “Are you okay? I can tell everyone to come by later, if you’d like to rest.”

Izaya shakes his head. “No,” he says. “They gave me something for the pain and it’s making me a little…” as he lifts his free hand to wave through a vague motion.

Shizuo frowns sympathy. “Does it hurt still?”

Izaya lifts his shoulder in a shrug. “Not really,” he says, and reaches down to the edge of the blanket drawn up over his legs so he can urge it down by a few inches. “It’s all bandaged up, anyway, it’s not like I’m going to do any harm to it as long as I’m lying still.” He catches his thumb at the back of his hospital gown to draw the fabric forward and lay his side bare; there’s not much to see, really, other than the white of a sterile bandage taped just below his ribs, but Shizuo still hisses dismay and reaches out to press his hand over it.

“Fuck,” he blurts. “How bad is it?”

“It’s fine,” Izaya says, with an easy dismissiveness on his tone that makes Shizuo frown and look up to the other’s almost-smile as he watches Shizuo. “It’s not very wide, it only took a couple of stitches to close everything up. Give me a few weeks to heal and I’ll be all ready to hit the streets again.”

“Right,” Shizuo says; but he doesn’t pull back, and he doesn’t look away from Izaya’s face. There’s something in the dark of the other’s eyes, some shadow there beyond what Shizuo can attribute to pain or the dizzy effect of medication; it makes Shizuo’s shoulders tense, makes his focus narrow to just the color of Izaya’s gaze on him. Izaya blinks, dipping his lashes without looking away, and Shizuo takes a breath and sighs his exhale. “You know who it was, don’t you?”

Izaya doesn’t even look surprised. “Yes.”

Shizuo hisses past his teeth, feels his shoulders tightening with the first surge of true anger he’s felt since he heard the news, feels his fingers flexing with the desire to win vengeance on whoever dared to tear Izaya’s skin with the edge of a knife. “Who.”

It’s not a question, and Izaya doesn’t answer; he just lifts his head, raising his chin into the edge of arrogance. “I’m not telling.”

Shizuo growls, tipping in closer like his presence can force the words out of Izaya. “ _Tell_ me.”

“No,” Izaya says, and then, before Shizuo can even think through words of greater protest, “Not yet. You’ll just go murder all of them yourself.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Shizuo says, because he might not enjoy violence for its own sake but right now he has the texture of a bandage over Izaya’s ribs under his palm, and the ache of lingering fright and a touch of guilt in his chest, and there’s nothing he’d like to do so much as break every single one of the bones in the hand that held that knife, in the arm of the person who dared to so much as _think_ of hurting Izaya in Shizuo’s absence. “I’ll go and I’ll deal with it and then I’ll be back.”

“No,” Izaya says again. “I’m going with you.”

“ _Izaya_.”

“ _Shizuo_ ,” Izaya lilts back, drawing the emphasis long and taunting. “It’s my revenge, you can’t go claim all the fun for yourself. I want to see the look on their face when they see who I brought with me this time.” He shifts under Shizuo’s hand, tipping to let himself fall back against the pillow behind him again. “And you can’t make me tell you until I’m ready to anyway.”

Shizuo huffs an exhale, torn between frustration at this aversion of the satisfaction of immediate vengeance and unavoidable warmth at the way Izaya’s mouth is tugging up on a self-satisfied smirk. “You really are _such_ a brat.”

“How awful, verbal abuse,” Izaya says, sounding not at all concerned over the claim. “How exhausting. Maybe I should call the nurse and tell them that I’m done with visitors for the day.”

Shizuo snorts. “You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Izaya says, and lifts his hand to reach sideways and towards the button by the edge of the bed. Shizuo lunges forward to grab Izaya’s wrist to stop the motion before it’s done, only realizing as his fingers close around the other’s arm how deliberately slowly Izaya is moving and how wide his smile is going.

“Oh no,” Izaya says, and he’s actively smiling, now, the expression is spreading warm across his face and glowing behind the dark of his half-lidded eyes. “You’ve stopped me, Shizu-chan, whatever shall I do now?” The way he tips his chin down suggests several options rather immediately to Shizuo’s mind; the effect is only compounded when Izaya tips his head back against the pillows and slides his leg out wide from under the blankets to bare the whole of his calf from his foot to above his knee. “You could just have your way with me and there’s nothing I can do to stop you. What a terrifying prospect.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says, trying and largely failing to not laugh. “You’re in the _hospital_ , can’t you lay off the flirtation while you’re healing?”

“Come on, senpai, _everyone_ has at least a little bit of a medical kink, right?”

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo protests, but Izaya’s grinning and Shizuo can feel laughter tightening his chest as the bands of panic restraining his breathing unravel into relieved amusement instead. “I--”

“Who has a medical kink?” a familiar voice calls from around the corner. “Celty, you know I’d be happy to put on a nurse’s uniform for you if you’d like that more than the lab coat!”

“Shinra,” Izaya says, and “Celty,” Shizuo offers at the same time; and then two figures come through the door, and Shinra is lifting his hand to wave hello at the same time Celty is raising hers to gesture through obvious concern.

“Hi there!” Shinra chirps, coming forward into the room while Celty is paused in the doorway and typing frantically at the keyboard of her phone. “You’re not dying yet, are you Izaya?”

“Thank you,” Izaya tells him. “Your concern is heartening, I think I may cling to life for a day or two longer yet.”

A shadow comes around Shinra’s shoulder, a black-gloved hand bracing the screen up so it’s clearly visible to both Shizuo and Izaya. _Izaya! Are you going to be alright??_

“It’s so good to have friends who care about my plight,” Izaya says, cutting his eyes towards Shinra without giving Celty a direct answer. “Really, what’s the point in even talking to people who don’t care about your well-being?”

“He’s okay,” Shizuo says to Celty, reaching out to touch her arm to pull her attention away from the panicked text she’s entering into her phone. “They got him patched up and gave him something for the pain already.”

 _Thank goodness_ , Celty types back. _Does Kadota know? Should I go pick him up?_

“I texted him already,” Shizuo tells her; and then, as the question from her presents another in his mind, “Izaya,” as he turns back towards where Izaya and Shinra are halfway into a back-and-forth regarding each other’s lack of intrinsic value that nonetheless has them both smiling with surprising sincerity. “I’ll let mom and dad and Kasuka know what happened; do you want them to bring Kururi and Mairu with them?”

Izaya rolls his eyes towards the ceiling of the hospital room with ostentatious force. “Oh, sure,” he says. “Why not, just bring everyone in the city here to see how good I look in a hospital gown. Very thoughtful, Shizu-chan, thank you.”

“They’re not _everyone_ ,” Shizuo protests, even though Izaya’s mouth is tight on a smirk that says his words are more intended to needle than to ring true. “I can tell them to stay home if you--”

“No,” Izaya says, the rejection coming atop Shizuo’s offer before it’s even fully formed. “It’s fine, I’m sure between us we can keep everyone at least minimally amused.” He shifts under the blankets laid over him, adjusting himself into something closer to his usual slouch than the anxious tension he was showing when Shizuo came in. “Besides, it’s not that big of a deal to see family in any case.”

“Hey,” Shinra cuts in right at this point, “Can I see the stitches they put in?” and Izaya lifts his head to drawl a refusal dry enough to leave Shinra pouting protest at this loss of a seemingly golden opportunity. That leaves Shizuo to turn to Celty to offer more reassurance to her fears, to confirm that yes, he’s seen the bandages, and no, Izaya’s not making the best of a bad situation, and yes, he’ll stay the night to make sure nothing goes wrong while the other is asleep. There’s a steady stream of questions she has to offer, almost a match for the continued cheer of Shinra’s requests to Izaya, and Shizuo and Izaya are both caught up in conversation for a span of time long enough for Kadota to arrive with Togusa following in his wake. Shizuo’s mother arrives soon afterwards, with a bag of fruit and a tearfully relieved embrace that lasts for several seconds, and then the room is full of people and conversation and sound, and Shizuo doesn’t have another chance to duck into private conversation with Izaya again for a long span of time.

Still, with the word _family_ to encompass the crowd in the room, Shizuo can’t imagine feeling safer than he does with Izaya’s hand clasped securely in his own.


End file.
